thoughts

~ Straight From The Source ~

~ Straight from the Source ~

“Why can’t you just write something normal, you know? Why can’t you just write a book about your actual travels? Why all the weird existentialism?”

I know, I know. My writing is not radio-friendly. It’s probably not going to make me many friends. It’s also not going to be something my parents will read through with a smile on. But it is the raw truth of me that fills my flesh and bones, and in this world that is something that my soul yearns out for. I do not believe that what this world needs right now is another middle of the road story. I do not believe what we need are some more people playing it safe. No, no: I do not want to add to that. In this life what we need are a few people to stand up and show who they really are to the world. What we need is some raw authenticity and gritty truth – a look at the dirty underbelly beneath the masks and makeup of the human race. What we need are the secrets of the silent souls – if only to let others out there know that they aren’t alone with how they feel in this life.

Yes that is what we need, and so here it is from myself: the mess and madness from my mind. The scraps of insanity in my skull. The aches and pains in my heart. The things that I can never speak when I stare into the eyes of you humans, but only express once I am alone in a room at a keyboard, separated from society, the tether cut so the spirit bird can finally rise up and express itself. And yes, I know it isn’t all pretty and polished, but better to be a genuine mess from the source of the soul, than to be perfectly packaged in a fake plastic reality.”

thoughts

~ Castaway ~

~ Castaway ~

“The humans in this world often scared me. It was their faces – the way they talked; the way they walked. It was the magazines they read, the television shows they watched, the fake smiles, the relentless consumerism and empty conversations. It was true that there were some humans not like that, but they were hard to track down among the swarming masses. Stuck on this rock with them, I liked to have my own space and to be able to travel away from that grey world of concrete and contracts and citizens. Unfortunately my existence on this planet was subject to the concept of money, and this meant I needed a job to do those few things I liked.

I went online and read their job adverts. They all asked for an ‘outgoing people person’; for a ‘team player’; for a ‘career-minded individual’. Reading the criteria, I had to laugh in despair at my limited chance. I was none of those things, so what was I supposed to do? Lie? Wear a mask? ‘Play the game’ – as they often said? If it really all was a game then it was a bad one. It seemed that there was some sort of fix – that the cold-blooded sociopaths and liars rose to the top while the most intelligent took anti-depressants and sat in therapist offices paying for the right not to go insane. In a world of steely-faced executives and agents, I felt like a castaway soul stranded in the dirt, chained down by gravity – trapped in a cage of slowly decaying flesh and bone. Since I was born I often felt homesick for a place I’d never known; homesick for a place I’d never been. In the worst moments I gazed up into skies above thinking that maybe my species was somewhere out there beyond the neighbouring solar-systems and stars. After all, there was an endless ocean of galaxies and worlds out there, but somehow I had ended up in one full of things I just didn’t understand. The situation was strange, but what else could I do? Where else could I turn? Where else could I go?

I thought some more about it and decided that my only chance of escape was to let myself become a beacon of insanity in the darkness. I decided that my only chance of escape was to set fire to my soul and let my eyes blaze with a brightness so bright, that if someone was out there searching for me, they might just be able to find me and come bring me home.”

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(taken from my book ‘The Thoughts From The Wild’ available here)

short stories

~ The Crazy Ones ~

~ The Crazy Ones ~

“His eyes were wild and his spirit uncombed. He had an alien presence that captivated everybody in the room. As we sat round the hostel bar table drinking beers, he flung his arms around like a maniac and told tales of his adventures. He must have been nearing fifty years-old but still possessed the dazzled and bewitched gaze of an infant discovering the surrounding world for the first time. At every moment he seemed painfully excited to be alive. He chugged his beer and spoke of hitchhiking around America while sleeping on the side of roads; he spoke of fighting off a couple of Venezuelan robbers with a knife; he spoke of helping to build an orphanage somewhere in Mongolia with a group of eagle hunters.

As he regaled us with his tales, I looked around at the younger faces around the table. Some looked intimidated and others looked utterly transfixed. No doubt the younger ones of the group had not encountered a creature of this kind before. Personally I had met a few people like this before out here on the road. I recognised a little bit of myself in him and enjoyed sipping my beer to his stories, although I could never imagine venturing as far down the rabbit-hole as he had done. It was true that I liked to have chaotic adventures – but fighting off some guys with a knife in a country known for drug gangs, gun crime and bloody murders was maybe a little too bohemian for me.

The tales of worldwide chaos and anarchy went on until eventually everyone’s beers had run dry. Looking down at the foamy mass at the bottle of the glass, he got up and headed back to the bar while offering to get a round in for everyone at the table. As soon as he left the table the gossip began. “Well, he’s a bit ‘out there’ isn’t he?” said one girl. “Yeah, is anyone else slightly afraid?” said the guy beside me. “How is someone like that still alive? How old even is he?” wondered another. As they carried on talking I couldn’t help but sit back and smile. I knew that although they were slightly intimidated, they were also secretly fascinated by such a ferocious free-spirit. The look in their eyes had a sort of marvel – an amazement that a man his age could still be living such an adventurous life. With this in mind, they chatted away about him with a sort of curious interest. This is how it was – this is how it always was with these types of people.

Always the crazy ones were discussed with hidden interest. Some were mocked outright, and others were affectionately referred to with lines like “she’s a bit different” or “he’s a bit out there”. Whatever the case, it seemed most people had a subconscious fascination for the alternative mind. People would stand back and observe them as if they were a rare species – some kind of exotic bird with pink feathers. Mostly they fascinated me because they were the creatures who had jumped the fences of normality; they were the ones who hadn’t subscribed to the current version of sanity which helped us all enjoy small-talk down the pub. To me that was a liberating quality I couldn’t help but envy. Without being shepherded on the farm of conventional thought, you were free to invent yourself and be whatever you wanted to be. And what was more desirable than that? In a world that said the winners were the rich people, or the famous people, or the good-looking people, to me it was the crazy ones – the people living life on their own terms – who were life’s greatest success stories.”

(taken from my book ‘The Thoughts From The Wild’ available here)

 

 

thoughts

~ The Hills Above The Cities ~

~ The Hills Above The Cities ~

“A brain overcharged by absurdity; a soul starving for something real. Another day of menial work and superficial interaction had left me craving a space of solitude. Like I had so many times before, I took myself up to that hill that overlooked my hometown. Standing above that urban expanse with its rows and rows of streets sprawled out before me, I cast my gaze outward and watched the city lights shimmering in the night. There they were: the flames of humanity flickering in the abyss of the universe; the human race floating through space, going about its transient existence. I stood there for a while and absorbed the sight. From the outside looking in, I thought of all those people living in those houses, walking those sidewalks, staring into those televisions and bathroom windows. I thought of the families at dinner tables, the lovers entwined on sofas, the friends laughing together in the bars and clubs and restaurants.

In that moment a great feeling of isolation crashed over me. In vivid detail, I began to realise just how much I was cut adrift, floating uncontrollably further and further away from those shores of human belonging. And no matter how I looked at it, there seemed to be no way to pull or anchor myself back in. It had always been this way from a young age it seemed. The times I tried to fit myself into the herd had torn and twisted me up beyond repair. I simply didn’t understand my fellow species, or any of their customs. I didn’t understand the conventions. I didn’t understand the expectations and traditions. I didn’t understand why everyone wanted to be the same rather than live a life true to themselves. It was all a great mystery to me: the jobs, the media, the school-system, the paperwork, the small-talk, the religions – the monotonous routine. It seemed that I was allergic to it all. In my most desperate times, I did try to fake it, but like an undercover alien with a bad cover story, it was never long before people cast their looks of bewilderment upon me, before they realised that I was not one of them – that I was an intruder.

It’s not that the situation of isolation was completely soul-destroying, of course. There was a great joy to be found in sailing your own ship, in walking your own path and getting lost among your own mountains of madness. Often I felt great pleasure in not being labelled and closed in to some sort of box of limitation. There was a sort of freedom that many people never got to taste, let alone fully explore. But still despite that, I was burdened with the situation of being a human-being, and like all human-beings I needed to stare into the eyes of someone who understood – of someone who recognised me for who I really was. I guess for a while on my travels I looked out for those people, expecting to find them on sunset beaches and sitting wistful-eyed in smoky bars in foreign lands. Sometimes I was even lucky to find one or two, but the interactions were usually short-lived, lasting only a few hours or days at the most. Like captains of two ships briefly passing by in a wide ocean, we stared into each other’s eyes and exchanged knowing glances before disappearing silently into the mist.

Yes, the more I stood there on that hill and thought about it, the more it seemed this was the destiny of someone like myself. The cards had been dealt and I knew deep down in my flesh and bones that it was my fate to sail alone, to get lost in the mazes of my own mind, to dwell in solitude among those mountains of madness. This was how it was; for some reason I would never fully understand, this is how it was. I guess by now it was just a matter of acceptance: a matter of accepting that I was a lone wanderer – a matter of accepting that I didn’t belong. I guess by now it was a matter of accepting the fact that no matter where I went in this world, I would always return to those hills above the cities, standing alone, staring up into the skies, looking for something – anything – to come and take me home.”

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(taken from my book ‘The Thoughts From The Wild’ available here)

thoughts

~ A Thought From The Wind ~

~ A Thought From The Wind ~

“Watch the sunrises. Watch the sunsets. Walk barefoot when you can. Stand tall against the storm and laugh in the face of stupidity. Soak in the sunlight and don’t feel guilty about devoting time to your passions. Travel if you get the opportunity – even if it’s just to another town or neighbourhood – travel. Explore your surroundings. Explore your creativity and express yourself. Even if your audience is just one person, share the contents of your soul with another. Practice mindfulness and don’t bother wasting money on lottery tickets. The illusion that happiness can be bought with money is just there to keep people toiling away in a hollow rat race. Listen to those starry-eyed children – they have more wisdom than you think. Also listen to the elderly, teachers and gurus, but never forget that true insight and knowledge comes from walking your own path. All the books in this world cannot ever replace the authentic experience of one person rescuing their truth from the wilderness. Believe in your own voice and don’t allow yourself to be marginalised by any institution, culture, religious book or writer. At the end of the day, your very flesh contains the fundamental fabric of the universe; you are the entire cosmos expressing itself as a human-being for a little while. Your skin is literally made of stardust so don’t be afraid to shine, don’t be afraid to dance – don’t be afraid to live your life with such blazing brightness that the stars above you weep with envy.”

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(taken from my book The Thoughts From The Wild, available here)

short stories

~ Medical Trial Madness ~

~ Medical Trial Madness ~ (taken from my upcoming book ‘Alien Nation: The Notes of an Existential Millennial)


 

~ Medical Trial Madness ~

The first time I heard about it was while travelling around Australia. I had just been working an overnight job in Adelaide where me and my friend had spent a few hours pulling down some plastic sheets that covered the clothing racks of a department store during a smoke test. Following this highly-skilled work, we were sat in a McDonald’s joint at dawn watching the streets begin to stir with life over a morning coffee and breakfast bagel. As we discussed the different ways to make money while backpacking in Australia, a fellow worker on the table beside us interrupted with some friendly advice.

       “Why don’t you guys do one of those human guinea-pig things?” he said, chomping away on a sausage and egg mcmuffin.

       “One of those human guinea-pig things?” asked my friend.

      “Yeah, you know, one of those medical trial experiments? You just go into a clinic, they give you a new medicine to take and then you stay in there for a while while you have your health monitored. When you finish you come out with a few thousand dollars in the bank. Easy as bro.”

     Immediately we both stopped eating and turned to face him like he was some sort of prophet. The sound of ‘a few thousand dollars’ to broke backpackers was like the sound of heroin to a smack addict. Being as desperate for money as we were, we naturally disregarded anything to do with the safety of testing unknown drugs.

       “And how do you sign up for one?” I asked, salivating at the prospect.

       “Just go onto their website bro – their clinic is in town. I’ve got a surfer friend whose been doing them for years now. He just knocks out like three or four trials then goes and surfs and gets drunk in Bali for six months or something. Pretty cruisy ey?”

       “Unreal” said my friend. “And anyone can do it?” 

       “Pretty much bro, as long as you can pass a drug test and don’t mind getting stabbed with a needle a few times a day.”

      Me and my friend both looked at each other curiously. After a few seconds of silent contemplation it was decided. Right there and then in that McDonald’s joint I realised that a glorious new career beckoned upon the horizon of my future. So far in Australia I had been a factory operative, a party-hire event worker, a fruit picker and a bartender – but now I was to venture into the pharmaceutical industry where I would nobly donate my body and time in the pursuit of trying to rid the world of the many illnesses that plagued humanity. Oh, and also to afford another month or so of travelling around Australia while getting drunk on cheap wine. 

       It was just a couple of weeks later when I walked triumphantly out of my first medical trial. I had just tested some new medicine to treat Asthma while staying in the clinic for five nights. I walked back out onto the sidewalks of society, joyfully breathing in the fresh summer air, skipping down the street, feeling the sun’s rays dancing away upon my skin. I was like a man in possession of a great secret; I had just spent the best part of a week lying around, being cared for, being fed, playing ping pong and pool while getting paid over a thousand dollars for all of it. Instead of forking out on pricey hostels, I had found a way to get all inclusive free accommodation plus a large sum of money. I stood there on that sidewalk and looked up at skies above knowing that I had found my true calling at last. Some were born to be doctors, some teachers, others presidents. Me? I was born to be a human guinea-pig. It was a pivotal day in my life and to celebrate my new profession, I went online to treat myself and booked a trip to go and cage dive with some great white sharks with the money I had just made in the clinic. Work hard, play hard and all of that.

     Over the next few years I continued venturing in and out of the human guinea-pig industry. Returning home to the U.K, I found I could only take part in a drug trial every three months, so I had to be calculative about when and which assignment I wanted to take part in. I was still travelling on and off somewhere out in the world, so all the trials acted as a convenient way to top up the bank account in between adventures. My equilibrium of life became some sort of comical cartoon where one moment I’d be hiking in the Himalayas and the next I’d be confined in a clinic having some nurse monitor my urine whilst being pumped full of drugs. 

     I thought maybe it would just be for a lifestyle for a short while, but I soon realised that this lifestyle was somewhat sustainable. Due to the entropy of the universe, there was always a wealth of work to be had. My many assignments in the guinea-pig industry included testing drugs to treat diseases and illnesses such as pulmonary arterial hypertension, neutropenia, cystic fibrosis and that old notorious bad guy: cancer. Each one varied from three to eighteen days in clinic, and helped to whatever adventure I was planning next. 

     As the needles pierced my skin and the blood was drained from my body, my financial health flourished as my bank account increased with travel tokens. I made money to go hike in the Himalayas; I made money to go party in Central America; I made money to go walk across Spain while drinking red wine every day of the summer. It was a simple transaction and, truthfully, the whole damn thing seemed too good to be true. The money was great and even the trials themselves were a pleasant experience. Inside those clinics I found fellow aliens like myself wandering out on the fringes of society; inside those clinics I found a way I could sit around playing on an Xbox all day while not feeling guilty about wasting the day away. You didn’t have to spend a single penny while you were in there so essentially everything you earned was complete profit and savings. Hell, it was even tax-free as the money was classed as an ‘inconvenience allowance’ and not a payment. Yes, for once in my chaotic life everything fit neatly into place, but naturally such an unconventional line of work brought about the naysayers. 

    “You don’t know what they are giving you”

    “You’re only thinking about the money”

    “Don’t you care about health?”

    “Sort your life out and get a proper job you hobo..”

      Maybe they were right, but I couldn’t help but dedicate myself to the profession anyway. No doubt I was blinded by the money, but it seemed that being a human guinea-pig was my true calling. I had tried and failed hopelessly at almost every other profession the human species had offered to me. I had no common sense or dexterity to do any of the trades, I was too open and honest to deal with the bullshit and bureaucracy of the business world, and I had even failed at my degree profession of journalism. It seemed that nothing in this society suited me except lying in a bed and being fed some drugs while having my blood sucked dry by a pharmaceutical company that saw me as a mere subject number in a scientific study. It was a funny situation I guess. My friends all had job titles that included: ‘marketing manager’, ‘graphic designer’, ‘business consultant’, and ‘systems engineer’. I suppose ‘human guinea-pig’ didn’t seem to fit in quite as well with those on the surface of things, but the more I took part in those drug trials, the more I realised that such a line of work drew many parallels with those other professions.

     I remember lying in bed on one of the studies and getting speaking to a middle-aged man on the bed next to mine. We both began speaking about our lives and why we were doing the trial, and how many we had done, and what we were planning to do after the trial. Naturally with him being a middle-aged human who had successfully bred, I presumed he was a functioning member of society with a career and confident knowledge of what he was actually doing in life. However after talking for ten minutes, it turned out that miraculously I somehow had a better grip on life than he did. He was spontaneously doing the two-week medical trial after just quitting his job as a store manager for IKEA. He explained to me how the long hours and time away from home had gradually ruined his marriage and social life and left him empty on the inside. He went on to say how he finally decided to quit after his friend had killed himself while also working as a boss for IKEA for twenty years. The death left a profound impact on him. It turned out he was doing the trial to give himself some time alone in the clinic to think about his next move in life so that he didn’t end up as another suicide case driven to that ledge by the cold, mechanical world of business.

     Right there and then I realised that the job of a human guinea-pig was no different than a lot of jobs and professions out there. In the process of trying to obtain money, I went and stayed in a set place for a certain amount of time where I gradually had my blood sucked dry by some company that saw me primarily as a number on a screen. Maybe it was a bit more nonchalant and ‘to-the-point’, but it didn’t seem to be so different from that IKEA job that man had told me about. At least with medical trials it was a lot clearer how it worked: “Look you need money, and we need your body, so come in and sacrifice your freedom and health for a set period of time and we will reimburse you with a financial payment into your bank account”. 

     If anything I had to applaud them for their honesty. Many faceless companies out there tried to confuse you with sneaky slogans like ‘career progression’, ‘success’ and ‘bettering yourself’. Many companies out there tried to make you feel good while really you were just spending the best years of your life confined in some small space doing some menial task as your health was damaged by the stress and the inevitable lack of exercise that came with being too tired to do anything after work. Maybe medical trials were no different in regards to how they used you, but I respected the fact that everything was at least a lot more transparent about proceedings.

     As I carried on my career in the guinea-pig industry, I realised that the IKEA guy wasn’t a one-off. Often I came across people who had dropped out of the rat race and started doing trials in an attempt to afford extra time off during the year, or a way to supplement an adventurous lifestyle like the one I was attempting to live. Mostly they were on the other side of forty. I figured that this was because it was usually at that age many people finally awoke to the fact that they had wasted away their youth working at a job they had no interest in for a company that had no interest in them. Finally realising this unfortunate set of circumstances, they set about simplifying their life and finding a way to afford to actually spend time doing what they cared about – whether that was travel, art, video games or even something as simple as gardening. It was a sudden side step to say the least, but mostly it was a good score: the trials themselves were a nice retreat from society and allowed a person to sit inside all day and maybe learn a new language, play the ukulele or, in my case, work on some memoirs they had been wanting to jot down for a while. Of course there were the obvious possibility that something could go wrong and you could get elephantitis or something, but overall it was a risk I was happy taking.

      And take I did. The years went on and on and so did those trials and adventures. Sometimes it was taking a pill to stop nicotine addiction, sometimes it was an injection to treat irritable bowel syndrome. Eventually I managed to get into the routine of doing three trials a year. With this money supplementing my chaotic lifestyle of bohemian travel, I usually only had to actually work an actual job for no more than five or six months a year. The situation was strange, but a good kind of strange – although I did think maybe I had gone a little too far when I was sat in a toilet holding a container under myself as I went about my business. I had ended up on a trial which required us to give a faecal sample at least once every day. I specifically remember the awkwardness of walking through the clinic ward while holding my container to go and place it on a tray alongside all the other guinea-pig’s cluttered pots of faeces. I thought of how my friends would be handing in coursework, or important projects of some sort they had completed at work. Me? I was quite literally handing in a piece of shit.

     Eventually, after trial number twelve or thirteen, friends and relatives started raising eyebrows that I was still continuing my career in the guinea-pig industry at a relentless pace. 

    “This is getting ridiculous – you can’t do it forever.”

    “You need to think about getting something solid behind you.”

    “You need a proper trade or qualification.”
    

    It was the standard script that parents, teachers and professional human-beings could recite at any given moment on any given day. Even my sister, usually generally on my side with most things, had her eyebrows raised along with the others.

      “Have you not thought about what job you actually want to do?” she said sitting across from me on the sofa. “You’re twenty six now after all. You need some security; you can’t rely on testing medicines all the time.” I was disappointed by my sister’s reaction but I understood her position. By now my sister was twenty-eight, studying a physiotherapy degree and preparing to finally fit herself into the paradigm of society after a decade of free-spirited floating around. The psychology elements of her degree made her feel like she could understand the chaos of the human mind, and she sat back into the groove of the sofa and studied me like she was a therapist and I was her patient. I got into the swing of it and went ahead explaining that by doing a medical trial, working three months and then doing another one, I could afford to travel over half the year for the rest of my life while working on my writings. There was no nod of agreement; just a look of bewilderment, of concern – of outright fear. It was a look I would have to learn to become immune from if I didn’t want to caged by the judgmentalness of the human-race which was always ready to cast those glares and scowls upon you in the millions.

     I thought inside the clinic was safe from such judgment but I began to see a lot of people in there were also insecure that this line of work wasn’t an acceptable way of surviving in this world. The middle-aged people were usually comfortable with them as they did them in combination with some other line of work. But the fellow guinea-pigs my age were often chatting away about other plans or studies or ventures to show that medical trials weren’t their final destination in life. In particular, I met one guy called Daniel, a couple years older than me in his late twenties, who had been out travelling the world the last few years and had now returned home to face the screeching music of ‘the real world’ – an experience I knew all too well.

       I saw him scribbling fastidiously in his notebook. “What are you writing?” I asked.

       “Ahh you know, just trying to get some plans down.” I looked down at the page where bullet-points and ideas littered everywhere in the margins. There was a long list of possible job roles and courses, all as varied as a kid’s pick n mix candy selection. 

      “Wow, you’ve got a lot of plans” I said.

      “Yeah, well, you know how it is. After travelling for so long you’ve got to get yourself in shape and figure out what you want to do with your life. You can’t rely on doing these trials all the time really, can you?” Immediately I started to recall the conversation we had a few days before in the ward. He had told me all about his travels and how much money he was making as a club rep in Vegas, and how he had planned to go back out there, and then later go to Canada, and how he hoped to do all these wild and exciting and adventurous things. 

      “But what about all the other things you planned to do?” I asked. “I thought you were thinking of doing another couple of medical trials and then heading back out to Vegas?”

      “Yeah, that’s true” he said. “But I’ve been thinking about it. I’m twenty-eight now, and I’ve got no relevant experience in my field of study since I graduated. Looking at jobs while in here has made me realise that I’m a bit out of the loop, you know? All my friends here have stable careers. Having to rely on medical trials to get by isn’t what I want to be doing in my thirties. Maybe the travels can wait a bit for now.”

      Naturally I was surprised by this reaction. I wanted to question him on his sudden U-turn of thought, but decided against it. It already seemed like he had enough going on inside his mind. Hearing it off someone like me how he changed his mind so drastically and so quickly probably wasn’t going to help. But it was true: he had waltzed into the study excitedly chatting about all his travels and his plans to continue his adventures after Christmas, but now in less than a week the pressure of society’s expectations and the fact he was getting money from medical trials had started to wear down his idealism of travelling the world. It made me slightly sad and I avoided talking to him any more about those plans he was constantly scribbling down in his notebook of anxiety. It was clear to me he could easily get some quick money together doing this then head back out to Vegas in the new year to continue the life he had proclaimed to love so much. But the situation of coming home and having no real job and testing drugs for money had left him spooked. 

     After that encounter I kept thinking more about my emerging occupation as a human guinea-pig. I thought of Daniel, my sister and all the concerned others. Maybe it was true that an individual couldn’t rely on doing this forever, but all in all I was happy with the line of work I had chosen for the time being. Maybe it would cause me health problems in the future, and even knock a few years off my life, but I was content with the fact that it at least it afforded me months of freedom where I could venture out into the world and live of exploration and adventure. I was content that I was at least living the life that allowed me to explore my interests and passions to the fullest. We were all slowly decaying and dying anyway, so why not do something that at least allowed you to have fun in the small time we had available here? Why not try something a little different? Why not just keep things a little more simple? As a great philosopher once said: “better to have a short life full of what you like doing than a long life spent in a miserable way.” 

      Well, here’s to you Alan Watts – writing this while temporarily enclosed in a medical trial clinic so I can get some money to go out hiking in the mountains again. Here’s to a glittering career of testing new medicines and blowing the cash on adventure while writing it all down along the way. Here’s to helping cure humanity’s ills while sitting around playing on an Xbox. Now, if only I can get rid of these purple spots on my skin…

 

      

poetry

~ The Mightiest Sword ~

~ The Mightiest Sword ~

“Pick up that pen and write like
you’re riding into war,
and the gods are on your front line

pick up that pen and write like
you’re an unknown gladiator,
and have the champion against the ropes

pick up that pen and write like
the monsters are closing in,
like words are the last line of defence

please, just pick up that pen and write
write the pain
the glory – the horror
write us the script of salvation

write like you’re the one to find us
the one to save us
the one to finally pull us out
the dark swamps of pain,
and lead us safely back
to the kingdom

of ourselves.”

pen